More Than Meets the Eye
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: John Watson's unusual abilities are one reason why he was immediately fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. The other reason was the man himself, of course. This is how they clicked. Eventual Johnlock, different reality AU.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

**More Than Meets the Eye**

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Part 1

* * *

John Watson had one unique ability he was aware of: he had always been able to perceive people's auras. He didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary until he learned that no one he knew had the same skill. For him, it was as normal as breathing.

It was interesting, to say the least, and sometimes confusing. The auras didn't frame the individual persons with a halo of colours, rather made themselves known in the back of John's mind, reminiscent of a thought; they immediately brought a mental picture with them, providing whichever properties the doctor associated with them, colours and characteristics.

Most people's auras were faint, a gentle glow. Shy, John sometimes thought. Others were standing out rather vividly, either because they were glowing so strongly they seemed golden or because their glow was dark and slick, like oil. Some were hard to grasp at all, too flimsy, too feeble. Some auras were subdued, others flared.

All in all, John had gotten used to relying on someone's aura in order to assess their character; it was something he wasn't even particularly aware of, since he had done it all his life. He didn't think about it much usually.

And then he met Sherlock Holmes.

Like the colour of one's eyes, auras never changed. They were a consistent presence, which John usually found reaffirming. In Sherlock's case, it was making John's hair stand on end. Not necessarily in a bad way, he realized with a jolt; on the contrary.

* * *

It was an entirely new feeling. He had had crushes before, certainly, but they had never made themselves known as strongly as this. As soon as Sherlock was in his vicinity, John felt... stronger, more energetic. Astounding, really, since other people's auras never affected him before.

Sherlock's aura was different from every single one John had ever sensed: intriguing, unsettling, fascinating- there was a gossamer quality to it, making John think of alabaster. It seemed pure, at first look. And yet- there was more to it. For the first time ever, it felt as though John's vision began to blur whenever he tried to take a closer look, leaving him with a sense of foreboding that there was more, that there was darkness behind the first layer, black onyx maybe or the deep sea. It was engulfing John's self, a commanding but gentle presence, almost palpable. His whole body was tingling with the sensation, a strange notion and a wondrous one.

He was dazed and confused the first time it happened, the moment Mike Stamford had introduced him to the detective. Who was concentrating on his work when they had come into the lab at Barts, slightly bent forward, wings folded against his back.

John blinked. His great-grandfather had been a mage, according to family lore. John did not know what exactly that meant, and had never bothered to find out. His grandma used to tell him stories about her father when John had been little: "He had a great gift," she had said softly, almost in a whisper, "he was able to see angels."

John had not given it much thought, considering it a fairy tale back then; he had always been a realist and happy with it until he discovered that it was rather unusual to see other people's auras. His grandma had already been dead by that time, and John regretted that he had not asked her any questions. Or maybe he had, but he did not recall it.

His parents did not want anything to do with "that kind of nonsense", therefore he did not have any way of gaining new information. He did a bit of research in the university's library and eventually forgot about the matter. Until it came back and bit him on the arse, in the shape of a man who, like John, was looking for a flatshare.

He blinked again: they were barely visible, but undeniably there. Glossy, dark wings of the same colour as their owner's curly hair. The man sat down at the table now, eyes on the equipment before him: "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he asked. "There's no signal on mine."

His voice was deep and smooth, sending a shiver down John's spine. He barely heard Mike's reply: "What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

Even before Mike answered to say he did not have his phone with him right then, John had pulled his own phone out of his pocket: "Here, use mine."

The man glanced up at him, pleasant surprise audible in his tone: "Oh. Thank you."

His wings moved ever so slightly when he walked towards John, who was unable to take his eyes off them.

"This is John Watson, an old friend of mine," Mike introduced him, "and this is Sherlock Holmes."

_Of course he is_, John thought as though in a haze; the unusual name was fitting.

Mr Holmes glanced over his shoulder, clearly a bit irritated by John's odd stare. The doctor handed him his phone and smiled apologetically: "Sorry. Haven't been in here for a long time."

"Clearly," Sherlock Holmes said, and began to text. John thought he had been forgotten already when the man unexpectedly spoke once more, his gaze never leaving the phone: "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

* * *

Later that day, John looked Sherlock Holmes up in the internet. He found his website, which seemed a bit odd at first glance. Nothing like the man himself. After he had left the lab, John had felt completely drained, and part of him wanted to follow Mr Holmes. Luckily for John, Mike had still been there, a welcome anchor to reality: "Yeah," he had said, a twinkle in his eyes, "he's always like that." Those few words had sent another jolt through his old friend.

Well, John thought as he read through the contents of the site which was pompously called "The Science of Deduction". One thing was certain: Sherlock Holmes definitely stood out from all the people around him. An angel however, he probably was not.

* * *

Several months later, those first impressions had largely been confirmed, though John had been made aware of how many nuances there were to Sherlock, that he kept surprising those who were close to him. There weren't many, John had learned rather quickly; not only because Sherlock often appeared prickly and aloof, but also because he did not allow many people into his personal space.

He did not know about his wings, John had further discovered. To John, they were an essential part of Sherlock's being, just like his aura, and they did tell him a lot about the detective's state of mind most of the time, enabling him to see beyond the surface. That way, John had rather quickly realized that Sherlock wasn't nearly as cold-hearted as he sometimes appeared. If one watched him closely, it was visible in other details as well, even though Sherlock put a lot of effort into concealing his emotions. They were most apparent whenever the detective played on his violin while he was thinking, something only John and Mrs Hudson witnessed. His wings were loosely folded on his back during those occasions, vibrant and exquisite.

If there were other people present, Sherlock played brilliantly but more in control of himself, aware of the audience. His wings were completely still then, as rigid as the detective's back, mirroring his concentration.

When Sherlock was excited, his wings partially unfolded, giving him an expectant look, while they moved agitatedly when he was pacing, deducing, solving riddles.

After the Woman had drugged him, they looked inanimate, like unused appendices. On the night in Grimpen Village after he thought he'd seen a monster, they were folded tightly against his shoulderblades, trembling. It made John's heart ache; still, it hurt when Sherlock snapped at him, telling him that he didn't have any friends.

At times, often when Sherlock was outwardly snappish and irritable or did seem utterly unfazed by something which had others in tears, his wings hung from his shoulders as though they were dead weights, too heavy to hold up. On those occasions, John wanted to comfort him but never knew how. In Grimpen, he was so upset that he simply needed to escape. There were times when John was severely tempted to act on an impulse, such as hugging Sherlock; in this case, he felt like punching him.

* * *

His initial crush had slowly but steadily turned into something much more substantial. It was further enhanced by the friendship which had developed between them, and John could not imagine life without Sherlock in it anymore. He was grateful that he had happened across Mike Stamford's path that day, that he had been in the right place at the right time, because it seemed a given that his place was at Sherlock's side. Sherlock, who had told John in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in a relationship of any sort. Back then, at the beginning, John had not yet been very adept in reading Sherlock, had not paid enough attention to his wings.

While he was aware and appreciated that Sherlock seemed to hold him in high esteem despite his 'funny little brain', he was often confused by the mixed signals he was getting at times. Sherlock's wings inevitably perked up whenever John came into the room, even if the detective appeared to not notice him at all. Since that was what John often saw in any kind of social interaction that concerned his friend and others, he knew what it meant. Sherlock was acting, keeping up facades. That he did it in this particular case, namely concerning John, was leaving the doctor confused. Or maybe he was reading too much into it; Sherlock being fond of him did not necessarily have to mean that his own strong and not exactly platonic feelings were actually reciprocated.

* * *

After their life had been interrupted by a madman called James Moriarty, John spent the following two years reproaching himself; maybe, if he had had the courage to talk to Sherlock about it, things would have turned out differently. He'd still _have_ Sherlock in his life, not only emptiness.

He could not get rid of the pictures in his head, of Sherlock standing on that roof, of Sherlock falling. Of Sherlock lying there, lifeless.

What puzzled John was the fact that once more, even then, Sherlock had given mixed messages. Even seconds before he stepped off that ledge, his wings had been unfolding and folding themselves agitatedly. It didn't make sense- Sherlock had seemed so intent, so focused on what he was going to do. His wings should have been folded tightly; falling was not like flying, after all.

When he did fall, his wings looked strong, momentarily spread by the wind as they were. They did not carry him, though, but trailed after him as if they were broken.

Worse even was the moment John had managed to get through to Sherlock; his wings were partially covering him but did not hide the blood, the violence of it all. John had grabbed his friend's wrist in order to feel his pulse, desperately, not wanting to see what was burning into his retinas right then. It didn't make sense, none of it: not the lifeless eyes, not the fact that Sherlock's aura was as strong as ever, something John had not once witnessed before. He had seen deaths, violent and gentle ones, and inevitably, the respective persons' auras began to diminish immediately, if slowly. And yet- no one, not even Sherlock, the only human being with wings John had ever seen, could have survived that fall.

Maybe he had been an angel after all, John couldn't help thinking as he stood there at his friend's grave, unable to keep his tears away and wishing for a miracle. Could angels die? Weren't they already dead, or had they never been alive in the first place? He refused himself those thoughts, since it made for too much futile hoping against all odds.

He did not know how he was supposed to continue without Sherlock, life without him did not seem to have a point. During the first few days after, John barely had the energy to get out of bed. He began to dress himself but forgot to put on his socks or even his shirt. He couldn't eat, since it made his stomach turn, and he only remembered to drink when he began to feel light-headed. He couldn't bear anyone else's presence, least of all Mrs Hudson's, since she kept sobbing.

John felt as though he had fallen into a nightmare, a state too unreal to accept. The loss crept into his veins, made him ache physically as well as emotionally.

Even worse than wanting Sherlock back and refusing to comprehend that he was really gone was the guilt John was feeling; guilt that he had not been able to prevent what happened, that he had allowed Sherlock to despair. Because it must have been despair, John told himself, that had driven him to take his life. How little he had known his friend. Maybe he had not known him at all, had been to sure of himself. Whenever he had gotten to this point, John felt like destroying something.

* * *

It took him half a year to recover enough in order to feel ready to face the world again. He missed Sherlock with an intensity that was unrelenting, but at one point he realized that he needed to start working again, needed to get out of the flat out of the while, needed to resume living. The very thought made him feel like a traitor, but he still began to look for a job.

The day clinic he ended up working for on a daily basis was sufficiently dull to keep John occupied without allowing him to think too much during the hours he spent there.

Coming home in the late afternoon or evening was difficult. He sometimes wondered if he was ever going to stop expecting for Sherlock to be there. On many evenings, he went straight up to his room because he couldn't bear the emptiness of the living room. It did not once occur to him that he should move, however; leaving Baker Street was out of the question, since it would have felt like a betrayal. And there were still traces of Sherlock, other than his possessions; sometimes, John thought he saw his reflection in the window, or heard the echo of his voice, faint but sufficient to make his heart beat faster. He clung to those occurences, despite the impossibility of it all.

There was one particular memory he kept coming back to; it was like a compulsion, simultaneously soothing and disturbing. It was from John's birthday, the second and last one he had spent with Sherlock, shortly before everything had gone downhill. The detective rather unexpectedly had made an effort and taken John on a surprise outing, which, contrary to everything the doctor had anticipated, turned out to be truly pleasant and had nothing to do with their work. They went to see Mark Knopfler at the Hammersmith Apollo, something John wouldn't in a million years have dreamt of doing together with Sherlock, and certainly not on the detective's initiative. He had so far been convinced that Sherlock didn't even know any contemporary music that wasn't classical. He was furthermore rather surprised (if pleasantly so) that Sherlock hadn't simply given him the tickets but accompanied him.

"It's what you've been listening to the most lately," Sherlock replied when John actually said so. "I was curious."

He remained mostly impassive throughout the concert, his wings slightly tense, but John had been glad to have him there. Afterwards, he talked Sherlock into having some champagne to celebrate and also to savour his own emotional high; he had bought some on the day before, just in case. They emptied the bottle in record time, it seemed, sitting in their armchairs in front of the fireplace.

"That's the best birthday I had in years," John declared afterwards, sitting up straighter and clapping his hands in confirmation. Sherlock, who seemed a little tipsy because he wasn't used to drinking, beamed at him and sat up as well, his wings perking up in a familiar fashion.

"Wasn't bad," he conceded.

John looked around the living room: "I should've bought two bottles. One's not enough. Let's see if we've got anything else."

He found a fine brandy in one of the cupboards and poured them both a generous amount. A rather giddy hour later, Sherlock was visibly deflating. John, who felt pleasantly well-oiled himself but who also knew when to stop, got to his feet: "Come on," he said, "we should go to bed."

Sherlock beamed at him again and allowed John to pull him to his feet, his wings immediately spreading expectantly, which surprised John until Sherlock asked (a little slurred): "Mine or yours?"

If it hadn't been for the wings, John'd have thought his friend was joking. As it was, he felt his knees grow weak. But even as intoxicated as he was, both in the literal and the figurative sense, he knew he couldn't take advantage of Sherlock, not when he wasn't in full command of himself.

It took all of John's will power to turn around and leave after helping Sherlock to his bed, and he didn't get any sleep that night.

He'd never forget how enticing and lovely Sherlock's expression had been when he had smiled radiantly at John, something not many people ever witnessed. How soft his voice had been. It had also been the answer to his ponderings, but due to Moriarty, there hadn't been any time or chance to explore the matter further.

It made John wish he had done something other than simply let it go, and now it was too late. The beauty and the pain which blended together in this particular memory never failed to make him weep, and yet, he couldn't stop himself from conjuring it up time and again.

He had albeit stopped listening to music altogether.

* * *

One morning, John entered the clinic and found himself face to face with a new employee at the reception, a blonde woman who smiled at him, but he barely saw her, as he was having a hard time from trying not to stagger backwards; her aura was the first one which he was actually noticing since his best friend's death, and it hit him hard: it was surprisingly similar to Sherlock's, alabaster and onyx, layered, gossamer. Unlike the detective's, it did not engulf him or made his heart accelerate, but it was similar enough to leave him breathless. Fresh pain welled up in him, raw and unchecked; realizing he could not deal with it as unprepared as he was, he turned around and fled.

The new nurse by the name of Mary Morstan was puzzled. "Who was that?" she asked the receptionist, who shrugged: "That's Dr Watson. He's a bit strange, if you ask me. He's friendly enough, but he barely talks other than what's necessary. Never makes eye contact if he can avoid it."

Ms Morstan smiled to herself: maybe this was going to be interesting, after all.

John called in sick that day and the next. He wasn't ready to be confronted with that kind of reality. Sherlock had always stood out, his aura had made all the others seem bland. And now this. Someone whose aura was constantly going to remind him of Sherlock's. He was going to have to avoid the woman as best as he could, otherwise, he was certain, it was going to drive him mad.

* * *

Avoiding Mary Morstan did not work in the end. She seemed intent on being on friendly terms with John. He had no idea why he seemed so interesting to her, but she kept persevering, and he found that he liked her. She was funny, intelligent, uncomplicated. Good company, in fact. Being near here was painful at first, but he managed. He had to, after all, just as he had to keep breathing.

John didn't stop missing Sherlock, but he allowed himself to be distracted. He had so far refused to go out; Lestrade and also Mike Stamford had tried to get him to go to the pub with them, which seemed impossible. Going out with Mary was different. They went to places that were neither too crowded nor too loud. John told her about Sherlock, the words like lead in his throat. She understood. She encouraged him to tell her more, about the time before. At first, he couldn't. The fact that all that was lost was too overwhelming. Another six months later, he told her about the head in the fridge, which was the first time that he volunteered some information about his life with the famous detective.

Their outings weren't dates. John felt too frozen inside to even consider that, and Mary had realized the nature of their meetings rather early on: he needed someone to keep the darkness away, and she liked him well enough to feel up to the task. She wasn't even sure that it was friendship; maybe, they were doing each other a favour. She also could do with a little more light in her life recently.

* * *

Mrs Hudson kept her eyes on the two whenever she could. She knew that John wasn't over Sherlock yet, but she was glad that he did not hide in the flat any longer, tried to get on with his life.

"She's a lovely girl," she said one day when she met John in the hall; he was on his way out to go to the cinema with Mary.

"She is," he agreed, a bit tense, "though we're not... we're just friends, Mrs Hudson."

"That's just as well," she replied, smiling. "Have fun, my dear."

After John had left, she sighed: he did look better recently, but his eyes never smiled. Understandable, considering, but still... she had rarely seen anyone so broken.

* * *

For Mary's birthday, John invited her to a fancy restaurant. He had talked to her first, though, because he worried she might get the wrong impression. "I'm glad we met," he said, "and you've no idea how much good you've done me. But I don't... I hope you understand that we can't be more than friends."

"We _are_ friends," she had said, "which is fine with me, John."

Her smile had been sincere.

_The Landmark_ was the kind of venue that required a suit and tie. It had seemed a fun idea at first, but once they were there, John felt ridiculous, out of place. He tried not to let on how uncomfortable he was, as he did not want to spoil it for Mary.

When she went to the ladies' room, he busied himself with the wine list in order to have something to do.

Something was odd, though; a new aura made itself known, different from the ones already around him. Similar to Mary's, but not hers. John hesitated and closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

The sensation washed over him so strongly that he could almost taste it on his palate, painfully familiar even after two years. It did increase further, and when he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was a black tuxedo, and behind it, blurrily, the outline of a wing.

o

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!

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**Author's notes**: Those parts of the dialogue you recognised are from "A Study In Pink".


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

I'd also like to thank those who reviewed anonymously, I highly appreciate it!

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**More Than Meets the Eye**

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Part 2

* * *

I never understood what exactly it was that attracted John to me. And yet it was clear that he had been intrigued from the beginning. It was flattering and pleasant but also intimidating, since I often didn't know how to deal with so much obvious affection. Even when I was at my worst, John stuck to me. He was hurt sometimes, or annoyed, or both, but it never lasted long. At first, I was curious to see whether he'd actually one day regret his decision to move in with me, but I couldn't help growing fond of John too. Soon enough, I dreaded that he might leave one day, that I'd finally overstep the line and have him go. Funnily though, that never happened. John stayed and I found myself as enamoured with him as he was with me.

I successfully managed to conceal my true feelings for him, at least back when I was still alive. During the two years of my death, there was only myself I needed to hide them from, and it was difficult. Everything was different before the fall, this everlasting plunge which bore so much more terror than I could have anticipated, because every millisecond stretched into to a minute, and every thought I hadn't allowed myself until then suddenly couldn't be held back any longer, making it all too clear that I was about to destroy everything I was holding dear. Including John.

Yes, I knew full well what I was doing to him, to his heart. For a moment, regret made itself known. But then there was the impact, and afterwards, I didn't have any time to dwell on what was lost. Those thoughts only managed to overwhelm me later, in moments of weakness. For most of the time, I managed to control myself, keep my mind in check. When that became impossible for some reason (things did get out of hand sometimes, I still berate myself for that at odd moments), my thoughts inevitably turned to John. I often wished for his presence, I even kept hearing his voice in my head.

In Serbia, during one seemingly neverending night, I not only wished for John to be there, but for him to kill for me, just as he had done before. In the end, it wasn't him who came for me, but my brother.

We hardly talked on the flight back to England, mainly because I was too exhausted and unable to keep my eyes open for most of the time. The flight attendant on the private jet which was taking us to London had a habit of touching me whenever she checked on me (on my brother's instigation, no doubt), something which irritated me considerably. I'd rather have had John's hand on my shoulder, John's touch, not anybody else's. As it was, I flinched every time.

* * *

Maybe I should have kept in contact with Mycroft more. It was risky, though, and as usual, he'd have criticized the way I went about things. He habitually knows everything better, after all.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'd have been distracted if he had kept me informed about John (which he mustn't know). It'd have prepared me for seeing him in that restaurant though, together with a woman. Mycroft had only told me that John was having dinner with a colleague. He could have elaborated, of course, but it was his petty little way of revenge for not involving him more.

Seeing John again after all that time was something I had been craving. I had begun to wait for that moment even before I had stepped off the roof, and now that it had come, my mind suddenly was empty. I stood there and didn't have the slightest idea what to say, all the explanations I had come up with, all the sentences I had carefully constructed, had vaporized, it seemed. I felt unsettled, nervous even, which in combination with a blank mind is always disastrous in my case.

In my head, I heard myself making fun of John's moustache, but I didn't actually say anything. I just stood there, mute, _dumbstruck_ as Mycroft would have said, feeling heavy and useless. I wanted John to have forgiven me already, wanted to be closer to him than simply standing in front of him. Maybe the prospect of coming home had always subconsciously held the promise of more, of something I had never permitted me- _us_, that is to say, to evolve. Irrational, maybe, and definitely irritating, but everything was wrong and off kilter about that situation, and I had all but blundered into it, ignorant, stupid. And I realized: when one's formerly familiar boundaries have disappeared, one is left hanging in mid-air, unable to do anything about it.

_The last time you looked at me like this, pleading, desperate, you were about to break my world apart_, John's eyes said. _What makes you think that you can put it back together again?_

I had never felt so exhausted, not even on the plane back from Serbia.

* * *

John half rose in shock as he looked up and saw Sherlock standing there, an uncertain expression on his face, wings partially spread but visibly tense. John's knees felt like jelly all of a sudden, and he had to support himself on the backrest of his chair in order to remain standing. It couldn't be, and yet his eyes and his mind told him a different story.

This time however, he paid attention to Sherlock's wings. The man in front of him was looking impeccable, infuriatingly so in fact, but his wings did not. They were not as glossy as John remembered them, on the contrary: they seemed ruffled and dishevelled even at first glance, betraying Sherlock's polished appearance. If one looked more closely, he seemed tired. Weary. As though it was taking him a lot of effort to keep himself upright.

John didn't know what to say. He was close to tears, and the anger which had welled up in him just moments ago, the unexpected disappointment, were abating rapidly. All he wanted was for this to be real, for Sherlock to stay this time.

As long as no one said anything, however, it couldn't be real. Even Mary, wonderful, witty Mary was just looking from him to Sherlock and back, equally speechless.

It took the doctor a great deal of effort, but he finally managed to get his voice under control.

"How?" he whispered, as his voice wouldn't have worked otherwise. "How are you alive?"

Sherlock's wings drooped. He obviously had planned to surprise John, but where the old Sherlock would have come up with something witty, or arrogant even, this one seemed to have trouble finding the right words.

"I... have much to explain," he eventually murmured, and John shivered at hearing his voice again after such a long time.

Mary seemed to have realized by now who the man was that was interrupting their evening, and looked at him with narrowed eyes, scrutinizing him. He didn't register it, as his eyes were on John, only John. Who returned Sherlock's gaze with similar rapture and pain.

"John," she said softly, "I think I'll better leave you two to it."

John barely seemed to have heard her, but after a moment or two, he visibly squared his shoulders in an attempt to regain his composure, and looked at her: "Mary, no," he said, his voice sounding constricted, "I'm sorry. It's your birthday-"

"I'll be fine." Mary gave him a reassuring smile. "Really, John. I appreciate this, but I think you don't need the distraction right now."

He sagged a bit: "Right," he said, his eyes returning to Sherlock already. "Right. Sorry."

Mary rose and took her bag, pecking John on the cheek: "See you," she whispered, and with a small smile at Sherlock, she left.

Sherlock's hands were closing and opening agitatedly: "This is unexpected," he said, still not at all sounding as usual.

"Yes," John agreed. "You could say that." His voice was bare of any strength, and he still looked unsteady on his feet. "Air," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. "I need some air."

By now, a waiter who had been hovering nearby had realized that something was odd, and came over: "Is something the matter, sir?" he asked politely, perfectly hiding his curiosity.

"No," John said, "thank you. I'll... we'll be leaving. I'm sorry."

"I do hope sir's not in any way taken offense at something-"

John wished he'd disappear. "No, no," he repeated, "something has come up. A private matter. I'm terribly sorry."

Five minutes later, Sherlock and he were standing outside. Even though the air was nippy, John didn't feel any less dizzy.

"You fooled me," he heard himself say and with a rush of adrenaline, realized that his anger was after all still there and had not lessened much.

"John-" Sherlock began, but John wouldn't let him.

"No," he said, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying not to see how Sherlock's wings were drooping, how it emphasized the detective's forlorn expression, "you fooled me, Sherlock. You made a fool out of me. You took my h-" he paused, shakily, needing a moment to collect himself. "You took my life and tossed it out of the window, just like that. It's cruel. I don't even know what to say."

Sherlock stood mutely, his wings rigid.

"I can't deal with this right now," John muttered. "I'm leaving. Please- don't follow me. Not this time." With that, he turned and walked away.

* * *

I don't recall how I found my way back to Baker Street. I now knew what Mycroft meant when he said that emotions were messy and bound to cause pain. Well, I had known that before, of course, but I had successfully managed to subdue those memories, shut them away deep inside the Mind Palace. Subdueing them meant managing to forget just how raw and intense that pain could be.

My feelings for John had helped me through the darkest moments during the past two years, and now they had turned on me and made everything worse than it already was. And yet, I knew I wanted them. I wanted to feel what I did, because without it, I'd be less than human. When John had entered my life, he had unknowingly brought with him a sense of belonging, of safety. He alone had kept me right, had taken up battle with my worst enemy, which was me, and had taught me, also unknowingly, that it was possible to trust and rely on other people.

The house was quiet when I opened the door. Haptic memory is a funny thing; for a moment, after turning the key in the lock, it seemed that no time had passed at all. That illusion was soon destroyed by Mrs Hudson, whom I had never heard shrilling like that before. At least, it woke me from my stupor, but just as with John, I probably should have made plans how to prepare her for my return instead of simply turning up; she's not the youngest anymore, after all.

Well. She didn't have a heart attack and my ears didn't explode, but I dare say it was a close shave. Once she had finished screaming, we stood and stared at each other with mutual perplexity, but at least she did not whack me with the frying pan when she finally came to her senses. She shook herself, as if to make sure she was awake, then simply walked up to me and hugged me. Again, I was speechless, but something in Mrs Hudson's embrace made me sag, and I experienced a most disconcerting loss of control over myself, allowing my landlady to hold me for an unaccounted amount of time, and feeling a little bit of my accumulated loneliness ebb away for the first time since I had stepped off that roof.

* * *

John's spine tingled with the incredibility of it all as he sat at the bar of the first pub he had come across. He usually wasn't someone to drown his worries in alcohol, especially not in the light of his sister's problem, but this situation required a stiff drink. He shook his head; the nerve. Part of John felt giddy, elated even, at the realization that Sherlock was alive, that John was going to have him back. The larger part of him stubbornly refused to acknowledge any kind of joy, however, grimly pointing out that Sherlock apparently hadn't trusted him enough to let him in on the secret, choosing to keep John in the dark instead, in misery. It was hard to have his picture of Sherlock, who admittedly had become increasingly more sacrosanct in John's tortured mind, toppled over like that. With a grim, pained smile, he ordered another drink.

"Trouble with the missus?" the bartender asked.

"You have _no_ idea," John muttered. "Keep them coming."

* * *

Three hours later, a very drunk doctor stumbled out of a cab in front of 221B Baker Street. Cursing under his breath, he made his way to the front door and fumbled the key into the lock. He let himself in as quietly as possible in order not to wake Mrs Hudson, and climbed up the stairs.

Only one lamp was lit in the kitchen, barely illuminating the living room. It was sufficient to make out the figure on the sofa: Sherlock was huddling into one of the corners, wings folded around him as tightly as possible. John had come with the intention to shout (though how that wouldn't wake their old landlady was beyond him) and, probably, to punch. Now however he stopped, eyes stinging. Speaking of misery, he thought, and felt like weeping.

Sherlock looked up, squinted against the light coming from the hallway, and quickly got to his feet. His wings did not perk up as usual, though; he was wary, which hurt John more than he could comprehend.

"Sherlock," John said, though it came out as a mere croak, and, without waiting for an answer, he took hold of Sherlock's shirt, not caring whether he was rumpling it. He pulled the detective close and kissed him, hungrily, crushingly, like tidal waves against rock. For a moment, Sherlock was rigid, but then he complied, returning John's kisses with equal eagerness. John, moving on unsteady feet because of the alcohol and it all, manoevered Sherlock towards the nearest wall, crowding him against it. Once or twice, Sherlock made small sounds which sounded like protest, but John found he didn't care. He wanted this and he refused to think about consequences. When he finally let off, his mouth felt bruised. They stood breathlessly, bodies pressed together tightly, flushed and aroused, unwilling to move away from each other. And yet, Sherlock's expression was guarded, as though he didn't know what to expect next. It seemed that he was unable to read John for once.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his soft, deep voice scraping over John's nerve endings.

"Yes," John replied, equally soft, leaning in for another kiss, and another. "Yes, I know."

* * *

John didn't know that he was hurting me, he was far too drunk. Though maybe it wouldn't have mattered to him, for once. Maybe subconsciously he needed this, to be in control, to have the upper hand. To show me what it meant not to care about the hurt you were causing. He pressed me against the wall with so much force that I gasped, as the wounds on my back as well as my ribs made themselves known. I had forgotten how strong John is, how he doesn't let people fool him. _You made a fool out of me_, he had said earlier. Soberly, he'd never have resorted to something which might count as revenge, but this inebriated version of John didn't seem to have any qualms. At one point I felt his hands beginning to roam, and soon he began to open buttons, those on my shirt and those on my trousers.

I didn't object, didn't try to stop him. I had wanted this for such a long time, and this might well be the last time I'd ever get the chance to get so close to him. I could handle his being rough, I deserved it. If I couldn't have his understanding, his hand on my shoulder as I had imagined it a seemingly time ago in Serbia, I would take whatever else he was willing to give. As long as he was there at all.

o

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

**More Than Meets the Eye**

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Part 3

* * *

John woke with a pounding headache. With some difficulty, he blinked his eyes open and took in his surroundings. Confused, he realized that he was in Sherlock's bedroom, and that Sherlock was lying next to him, only a few dark curls visible. John's heart sank as he registered that he was naked and undeniably smelled of sex. Oh God. Slowly, because the headache was now joined by nausea, he sat up. What had he done? Had he done anything? How had he gotten here?

With half closed eyes, he scrambled to his feet and tottered into the adjoining bathroom; his bladder was near bursting.

A bit of cold water to his neck and his eyes helped to clear some of the fog that currently surrounded his brain, and he squinted at his reflection as memories came back to him, single moments like snapshots that made his heart sink further. Himself pressing Sherlock against a wall. Him kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock kissing back. The feeling of Sherlock's body under his touch, of soft, naked skin against his own. Of him holding Sherlock tight, hands on the detective's hips. Of rapid breathing. Of bliss.

Oh God. He closed his eyes, scrunching up his face: he had probably destroyed everything. Every chance of making amends, every friendly feeling Sherlock ever had for him, because he had violated him. Violation it had to have been, since he now recalled how he had all but manhandled the detective. Why had Sherlock given in, why hadn't he stopped him? John shook his head, immediately regretting the motion because it didn't help with the queasiness: of course. Sherlock had felt guilty.

_I'm so sorry_, John heard the soft echo of Sherlock's voice in his head and felt like weeping.

What was he supposed to do now? Should he just leave, sneak out and never come back? No. That wasn't an option. He wasn't a coward, and he didn't treat people that way. Especially not Sherlock. Ashamed, he put his hand over his mouth; he didn't _use_ to treat anyone that way. Until yesterday, at least. He looked at himself in the mirror with disgust; it was a stranger's face, not only because of the moustache he now realized was hideous.

With a trembling hand, he took Sherlock's dressing gown from the hook on the wall since his own was upstairs and put it on, then he went back into the bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock was still mostly invisible. Hesitantly, John sat down on the mattress and peeled back the covers until the detective's face appeared. He seemed on the verge of waking up, blinking a little drowsily before looking up at John. His expression was unreadable, and he remained silent. John's mouth was dry; he had to clear his throat a few times before he was able to speak: "What did I do to you last night?" he asked, barely managing to get the question out before his voice broke.

Sherlock's gaze roamed over John's face: "You didn't do anything _to_ me," he eventually answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was consensual." His tone didn't betray what he thought about it.

"But... I was drunk," John said, frowning, "and from what I recall, I rather forced myself on you."

Sherlock blinked: "You certainly were the initiating party," he murmured. "Who'd have thought."

John stared at him, unsure what to do. Here was the man he thought he'd never see again, who had caused him so much pain, so many sleepless nights. And now, within the course of just a few hours, his life had been turned upside down by the same man once again, and there was pain of another sort.

Unthinkingly, he reached out and touched Sherlock's face, timidly, only grazing his temple with the tips of fingers. The detective closed his eyes, and John noticed that he shuddered ever so briefly, delicately. Encouraged, he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, savouring the softness of the curls. "I didn't know this was going to happen," he whispered. He felt like weeping again, as the realization what he had lost and now gotten back hit him with full force. If he had gotten Sherlock back at all. He pulled his hand back, suddenly not certain whether he had the right to touch the other.

Sherlock opened his eyes again: "John," he said softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I did. No matter how angry I was, I shouldn't have gotten pissed. I should have talked to you."

"You were upset and probably shocked."

"Yes. Still."

"We're talking now," Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

"Yeah." John glanced around the room. "Though this is strange."

Slowly, Sherlock sat up. His wings were folded around his body as though to protect him from the cool air in the room. "Strange," he murmured, echoing John. "Not awkward?"

"A little." John gave him a lopsided smile. "Your dressing gown is very comfy, though."

Sherlock gave an amused little snort.

"I'm sorry," he then said, completely serious again. "I really am. You didn't deserve to be treated like that."

"Neither did you," John said with a pained expression. "Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze: "No," he replied softly. "You were... it was a bit abrupt, of course, but..." He broke off, obviously not knowing how to say what he had in mind.

John's heart was beating faster all of a sudden. "I was what?" he all but whispered.

A shudder had Sherlock's wings shiver. "You were what I wanted," he said, voice very low.

"I was?"

"For a long time."

"But... I thought... you said you were married to your work."

Sherlock gave him a feeble smile: "You won't hear me admitting that very often, but I was an idiot back then. Things have changed in the meantime."

John was stunned, and there actually were butterflies in his stomach. The memory of the night of his birthday came to his mind: children and drunk people speak the truth, he thought.

"And... do you still want me, even after last night?" he asked hoarsely.

"I could ask you the same," Sherlock replied.

Loud, heavy silence engulfed them.

"I do," John heard himself say. "I do."

Sherlock's expression softened: "Same here."

"God," John murmured.

They looked at each other, trying to comprehend the novelty of the situation.

"What about... your colleague?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"She's just a friend."

"A friend?"

"I was alone." _Forlorn_, his eyes were saying.

The silence that now followed was deafening.

"You didn't even take the sheets off the bed," Sherlock eventually said, his eyes never leaving John's face.

The doctor smiled, but then his expression crumpled, and his smile turned into a pained grimace despite his obvious efforts to keep his countenance. Blindly, he reached out and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He didn't cry, but his eyes certainly were moist and he was shaking like a leaf. Stunned by John's strong and somewhat belated reaction, Sherlock slowly returned the embrace, and they held on to each other until John had calmed down. Neither of them spoke, but at one point, John felt a tentative hand stroking over his hair.

* * *

When they let go of one another, John was a little abashed: "Sorry," he muttered, wiping his eyes.

Sherlock regarded him with a sad smile: "I don't think I can ever make up for what I did," he murmured.

John blinked: "You can start by telling me about the last two and a half years. Starting with the _why_."

Sherlock contemplated this for a moment:"I will," he then said softly. "If maybe not at once." He didn't realize that he had visibly tensed up, folding his wings even more tightly around himself. John understood; he knew that it sometimes took a while until one was ready to talk about certain experiences.

"What now?" John asked in an equally low voice. "How do we... proceed?"

Sherlock pondered this: "This is not my area of expertise," he said, blushing a little. "But it seems we skipped the- er. The dating."

John took his hand into his and squeezed it: "We could start over," he replied. "Last night was not how it should have happened. It wasn't about love, it was about dominance and..." He broke off, fresh shame welling up in him. "I probably wanted to punish you."

"Everything happens for a reason," Sherlock said.

John's other hand found Sherlock's cheek, gently caressing the skin: "I haven't been with a man in ages," he said. "And being with you... I forbid myself to fantasize about you, but to be frank, there's nothing I'd like more. And I want both of us to enjoy it."

Sherlock looked a little flushed again.

"I don't only mean the sex," John hurried to say.

"I don't know how to be in a relationship," Sherlock murmured. "I never really was."

"Just be yourself," John said.

"According to most of our acquaintances, I'm arrogant and selfish."

"You're also lovely."

"There's no need to try and flatter me, John."

"I'm not." A brief smile showed on John's face. "I've loved you all this time, no matter what. It happened soon after we met, so I think I know what I'm saying."

Sherlock was deeply red now. "Thank you," he muttered, his wings unfolding a little. "You're always sticking with me, no matter what I do."

John lifted Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissed it: "You're welcome," he whispered. "I love you, Sherlock."

"You love me," Sherlock repeated softly, and a smile slowly spread on his features, illuminating his tired eyes. "I love you too, John."

John laughed, briefly, giddily, and leaned forward for a kiss. This time, it was tender and slow, not at all with the bruising force of the previous night behind it. Sherlock's lips were soft and solid, and John savoured the feeling, savoured the knowledge that they had made the mutual decision to be together, that this was the opposite of the desperate invasion that the first time had been.

* * *

After a while, they moved further onto the bed, and it was Sherlock who, with slightly trembling fingers, opened the dressing gown and slid it off of John, pulling him onto his own pliant body. John didn't feel the wings, which slowly spread until Sherlock was lying on top of them.

It was then that John paused. Sherlock's torso was covered with scratches and other small wounds, and the skin over his left ribs was slightly swollen and discoloured.

"What happened?" he asked against Sherlock's mouth, unwilling to stop but appalled by the sight.

"The last bit of my... enterprise didn't go as smoothly as planned," Sherlock replied, avoiding John's gaze. "It's not as bad as it looks."

John blinked, trying to find the right words: "Is that all?"

Sherlock hesitated: "My back looks similar," he then volunteered. "It's healing, though."

John's eyes roamed over his face, taking in every little detail, and realized that he knew Sherlock's features by heart. It hurt to know that someone had injured this man, who was so beautiful and irreplaceable to John. And he hoped he hadn't made it worse last night.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak: "Just tell me if I'm hurting you, okay?"

"Okay."

"Really, Sherlock, I mean it."

"I know," Sherlock's voice was low. "I will."

John smiled at him, sadly, fondly: "You feel good," he murmured, "just as I thought you would."

"My bodily proportions-"

"Are not what I meant just now," John breathed, making Sherlock blush once more.

"Oh," he said very softly.

They didn't talk much after that.

o

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!


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